


Raven’s Ringlets

by OnlyOneWoman



Series: Thaw [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Brotherhood, But also love and care, Canon-Typical Violence, Castle Black, Character from the books, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, I mean: my account is where canon goes to die, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow Knows Something, M/M, No Spoilers, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Satin Flowers knows too much about the cruelty of men, Sexual Violence, Shame, The Night's Watch (ASoIaF), non-canon, the wall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:53:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyOneWoman/pseuds/OnlyOneWoman
Summary: Since I'm apparantly a sucker for angst and there's always more misery to add to my most beloved cinnamon rolls, I should've know there'd be a part 4. READ THE TAGS, there are no spoilers from the show at all and the Satin Flowers character only appears in the books, so no similarities with the Olly character (thankfully!).Things will get UGLY, consider yourselves warned. (On the other hand, what can be more GOT/ASoIaF canon, than violence, pain and sadistic men...Comments are, of course, VERY MUCH appreciated <3





	Raven’s Ringlets

**Jon**  
”A _catamite…_ ”  
  
The septon spits it out, like a piece of bad meat from Dolorous Edd’s hardship stew. Jon hears him, but doesn’t take his eyes from the couple on the floor. They so rarely have anything like a feast in the castle and there are a few young ladies among the unexpected guests. Dancing is an enjoyment the men here rarely get a taste of and entertaining the pretty guests is a task they’re all but fighting to perform. All but Satin, of course. And the septon.  
  
The pretty man from Oldtown doesn’t have to fight for attention, quite the opposite. The ladies, highborn or not, are all drawn to him and Jon isn’t one to blame them. Of all the men in Castle Black, Satin is the sweetest, the most likeable and tonight he’s having his old, warm smile back, his wavy ringlets catching the candle lights, bouncing around his shoulders in the otherwise so gloomy hall. Why the septon is so fucking determined to hiss and grit his teeth about catamites during this rare occasion of pleasantries, is beyond Jon and he empties his drink, a littler faster than he intended to, before turning to the old man.  
  
“As I’ve said before, septon, whatever Satin has or hasn’t done in his past, he’s one of us now and that’s all I’ve got to say on this matter.”  
“The boy is…”  
“My _steward_ and a very good one. He’s quick with his feet as well as his mind, he’s handling the longbow, the axe and the pen as good as anyone. He’s loyal, he’s diligent and, which is more than I could say of most men, willing to make good use of soap.”  
  
He’s a ray of sunshine, a breathing promise of spring and none of that will ever matter to old goats too full of themselves to remember why the realms of men are worth protecting at all. The septon looks like he’d like to bite back at that, but then the men start to applaud the dancers and Jon looks at his steward again.  
  
One of the ladies, a young and pretty one, is touching Satin in a seemingly innocent manner, but the way her fingers linger a little too long at his hand, how she takes his arm like he’d escort her – which, of course, he does – is clearly flirtatious and Jon doesn’t like it, neither does the septon.  
  
“Lord Commander, I must say, this is hardly apropriate.”  
“You don’t approve of dancing, septon?”  
“These are highborn _ladies_ , Lord Commander.”  
“And dancing is something many people enjoy, regardless of who their fathers are, septon.”  
  
Jon downs his drink and puts the cup down a little harder than usual.  
  
“You have Satin Flowers to thank for the abscense of wildlings and worse as much as the rest of the Night’s Watch, septon Dursian. And many of my brothers here have a far less flattering past with ladies than my steward. If you feel comfortable sharing bread and company with former thieves, rapists and murderers, and seeing them dance with highborns, I believe a former prostitute who actually knows how to behave should be a step up.”  
“Well, I’ve…”  
“Listen to me, _Dursian._ ”  
  
Jon keeps his voice down to a whisper and he’s smiling as if exchanging pleasentries with the idiot, but he’s had enough.  
  
“I’m aware that it’s an honour for the men here to dance with anyone ever again and I do not try to excuse anyone’s past, but Satin Flowers _was_ a prostitute and _now_ he’s my highly capable steward, a hard worker and decent man who, which ought to be a relief rather than a worry for you, is probably the last one here who’d enjoy making a woman uncomfortable in any way, highborn or not. And now, if you excuse me, I would very much like to change subject before my brothers can see something’s amiss.”  
  
There’s a small pause where the septon looks like he’d like to storm out, but although he might be a pompous shit, he’s not a complete idiot and he nods with a little smile that looks like it’s been dug up from the frozen well on the courtyard.  
  
“Of course, Lord Commander. I do trust you to keep that… boy in line though.”  
“It wont be necessary, septan, but if it eases your mind then yes, I will, although I can think of at least ten others, a couple of them with noble bloodline, you’d like to keep your young company away from.”  
  
Dursian now seems ready to choke on the wine but one of the girls who’re thanking Satin for the dance, is heading over to her seat at the Lord Commander’s table and the old hypocrite gets busy checking the state of his young pupil’s apparantly fragile soul.  
  
Satin is talking to Dolorous Edd about something, nodding and then the two of them leaves the hall, probably to take a piss or just getting a break from the company and Jon is pulled into a conversation about the Lannisters’ “natural leader skills” and how the North could use some help with that (is this septon completely unaware of who Jon’s father is or is he just trying to compete with Ser Alliser in the art of being an asshole?). No, he’s just stupid. Naïve and detached from any real suffering brought upon the common people by the fancies of kings and highborns fighting their pathetic little wars and schemes while using peasent boys as pawns in a game.  
  
The candles in the hall seem less bright when not caught by Satin’s raven ringlets.  
  
  
**Satin**  
He’d scream was it not for the knife against his throat. Any other day he’d try and fight it off, but he’s learned the hard way that some men seem more drunk than they actually are and therefore haven’t lost enough balance and strenght to fall from a simple push.  
  
“One sound, boy, and I’ll cut your pretty white throat…”  
  
It’s one of the guards. Satins recalls his eyes although he can’t see them now, as he’s shoved up against the wall. It’s a tall and broad man, burly and his breath is hot and full of strong ale and heat. Satin knows this type, knows them all too well and he’s unarmed save for his small table knife.  
  
This man, he can tell, will have no restraint what so ever if he’s challenged and Satin’s body reacts on an instinct he thought he’d hoped not having to rely on anymore. All the training has made him a lot stronger, but the man rutting against him and tugging at his lacings, has roughly eight inches on him and clearly grown up with a sword in hand.  
  
It’s the kind of man who’s pent-up after a long journey where he’s not had access to enough willing – or unwilling – women and that sanctimonious septan has probably been preaching all the way too. And if there’s one thing Satin has learned, it is that no fancy clothes or impressive title can stop a rapist who clearly knows that Satin isn’t a former thief or poacher.  
  
He uses a little spit, but it still hurts and the man puts a large, dirty hand over Satin’s mouth, muffling his whimpers. The laughters and loud talking from the hall are close enough from him to hear, but this corner isn’t one anyone will pass now. It’s a shortcut to the stables and one of Ser Endrew Tarth’s little admirers is one horse duty tonight. Ser Endrew is good friends with Ser Alliser and the men looking up to them, wont lift a finger to help a former whore no matter what oath they’ve sworn. If anything, Ser Endrew might keep watch on behalf of the rapist.  
  
“You like this, don’t you… _Whore…_ Combing those locks like a girl, I bet…”     
  
_Just stay still, Satin. You can do this. He’s soon done, he’s gonna be quick, you know this type._  
  
“Bet that bastard commander of yours make good use of you… Uh, you’re… ah… tighter than I thought, for a… catamite…”  
  
_Don’t cry. You’ve had worse and if you just stay still, that dagger can’t reach you. He’s unsteady, Satin, and you know how Ellä got that scar. The drunk bastard who snuck a dagger into the room and cut her face because… just because he could and he knew he could. No one cares about a whore, black cloke or not, so don’t give this asshole a reason to do something worse…_  
  
But he’s not as quick as he should be and every thrust is like a stab. The lack of lubricant is burning, scraping his inner flesh like a razor and _please, Mother Above, have mercy and don’t let him kill me, oh, Father, give me courage… Stranger, keep me safe, protect your outcast son…_  
  
Instead of mercy, he’s tasting blood, and his body is passed on…  
  
  
**Jon**  
The feast is finally over and despite sitting in the high seat instead of being remitted to the lowest end of the table as was the case on Winterfell when having highborn guests, Jon hasn’t been comfortable socializing with these highborns and especially not their sanctimonious  septan. The guests have now been escorted to the rooms that have been prepared with the best Castle Black has to offer and most of the men have retreated to their chambers as well, unsteady but cheerful and that’s worth the trouble, Jon thinks. His brothers will live on this feast for weeks now and they’ve deserved a break from their tedious task.  
  
Satin hasn’t been within sight for a while, but Jon isn’t worried. His steward has probably helped out with the horses – a night like this, those on duty will grab any brother passing their way if they need a hand and Satin is a capable with the animals as any common man by now. Jon walks to his chambers, a little bit unsteady too, apparantly he’s not used to the strong wine the guests brought and he’s looking forward to let Satin help him to bed and having him curled up in his arms as is how they spend many nights now.  
  
But when Jon opens the door, there’s no fire going, the room is dark and no Satin is in sight. Ghost, who’s stayed silent by his side all night, makes a little noise and Jon reaches down to scratch his head.  
  
Something’s not right.  
  
Jon leaves the room and walks down the corridor, sobering by each step from the extra cups he’d downed this evening. He’s not at all drunk, but he’s not as sharp as usual and he urges Ghost on.  
  
“Find Satin, boy.”  
  
Unlike a dog, Ghost doesn’t seem to need anything with Satin’s scent on to search, or maybe the lingering one on Jon from last night is enough by now. They’re passing Grenn, who’s clearly had more than a few drinks too much and using a water bucket as his mercyful helped. Jon pats his shoulder.  
  
“You’ve seen Satin?”  
“Not since… he went to help with the horses, Lord Co-excuse me…”  
  
Jon just shakes his head.  
  
“You clean that out first thing tomorrow, Grenn, or I’ll put you on an extra night.”  
“Right now… Lord Commander, I’d take meeting one of the Whites over this… Oh, by the Seven…”  
  
_Idiot_ , Jon thinks, not unkindly, and goes on with Ghost’s nose showing the way. They head towards the outer parts of the castle only brothers and the sad bastards getting lost will set foot in and Jon can’t help but feeling more worried than annoyed now. They’re passing a stair and Jon is just about to head up it, when Ghost starts whining and there, oh Gods, _oh Gods_ , hidden between the wall and the heavy oak door leading to the stairs, is his steward.  
  
His clothes are ripped, there’s blood on them and scathered on the stone floor lays his shorn ringlets, like feathers of plucked raven and Jon sinks down by the disfigured man, his steward, his brother, his… _lover_ , who’s not even been granted the mercy of unconsciousness, but is whimpering quietly into the cold stone.  
  
“Satin…? Oh, my sweet, sweet Satin, who did this to you?”  
  
He’s not getting any answer except from more heavy pantings, the sounds of too much distress for a man to form actual words and when Jon tries to take him in his arms, Satin’s whimper turns to a cry, not from weakness, but utter and shear pain.  
  
Jon isn’t a maester and he’s never dealt with a rape victim before, because yes, it’s obvious what’s happened and the only thing stopping him from literally drawing Longclaw now and raid through the sleeping quarters of every man, guests and brothers alike, is the hard, simple fact that Satin needs help and a crowd of still drunken brothers staring at his misery and then waking up the even more drunken guests for a questioning would only make things worse.  
  
He bends down to kiss the brutalized man as softly as he can and removes his cloak to spread over his wounded form, small a protection as it is.  
  
“I’m going to get Maester Aemon and Edd, little brother, but Ghost will stay with you. I’m so so sorry, my love…”  
  
  
**Satin**  
“Son, please, let us help you. You need to let us tend to your wounds…”  
  
So his shame can be more exposed? No.  
  
Not screaming when Jon lifted him was hard enough. His body feels like it’s been pierced all the way up through his belly, his chest and throat. There’s a hole cutting right through him and it’s burning as the blackest ice running down the wall like everlasting paint.  
  
It’s happened to him before, but that was back in Oldtown, not here, not amongst his brothers and _friends_ , whom he trusts with his life. Now he’s on his stomach in the Lord Commander’s quarters and not only Jon and Maester Aemon are there, but Sam too. And when he tries to undo the torn trousers to take them off, Satin tries to fight him off, pathetically.  
  
“Please, Satin, I’m not going to hurt you, I’m trying to help you. Maester Aemon, do you have more milk of the poppy?”  
“Satin, open your mouth, it’ll be better for you soon, my son…”  
“Jon, hold him, he’s gonna stress the wound.”  
“You’re safe now, little brother. It’s me, _Jon_ , look at me, Satin. You _need_ to take the potion.”  
  
He’s overpowered, what’s the use in fighting? Satin opens his mouth to the cup brought to his lips and the taste is sweet and strong, he almost chokes on it and the pain gets worse for a moment but then it starts to ease, a little more by every breath.  
  
He prays to the Gods who didn’t hear his prayers in that corner, that he’ll fall into oblivion, but the only thing Maester Aemon’s brew does, is to remove the pain and dull his senses. Satin is still very much awake when he’s stripped and tended to and yes, the hands are familiar, skilled and above all gentle, but with the bodily agony eased, the one of the heart increases and all he can to now is to close his eyes and try to forget who’re tending to his shameful wounds.  
  
  
**Jon**  
Maester Aemon and Sam are the only people Jon trusts Satin with right now, as he’s sending for his brothers, one by one, crumpled with sleep and all of them bearing a reek of wine mixed with unwashed bodies. He makes sure they can’t talk or even exchanged looks, there’s no shared quarter after all and one of the few benefits of the Night’s Watch, is the luxury of a chamber of your own and a door to close, no matter of your rang. Tonight, Jon’s taking advantage of that, letting Dolorous Edd wake the brothers, quietly and one by one, sending them to the Lord Commander while standing watch to make sure the men coming back to try and get some more sleep, wont alert anyone until they wake up the next in line.  
  
But no one knows anything. They all look very much surprised and angered by the information that one of their brothers was found badly injured – Jon’s not telling in which way – and even Ser Alliser and Janos Slynt seem caught off guard and, while still balancing on the edge of disrespect, neither indifferent nor amused by the situation. Of course, they don’t know exactly what’s happened, or they’ve suddenly become skilled liars, but once Jon’s done questioning his brothers, from the eldest to the youngest, everything points to one or several of the guests as the perpetrators.  
  
Jon returns to his chamber, but sends Dolorous Edd to stand watch by the corridor leading from the brothers’ dormitory to the guest’s quarters. He wants to trust his brothers, all of them, but truth is, Jon doesn’t. Not when it comes to this. He doesn’t know all the newest recruits that well and if any of them even _hinted_ to their noble guests or their guards about Satin’s past…  
  
The man is laying on his stomach in bed and his uneven tangles paints a sad picture on the pillow. Remembering how beautifully those raven ringlets glistened in the lights, how Satin’s old smile was back, brighter than even the candles as he danced gracefully with the ladies, not once showing any disrespect or even clumsiness, a truly admireble example of how a brother of the Night’s Watch could behave amongst noble guests, is agonizing.  
  
When Maester Aemon and Sam are done with what can be dealt with now, Jon sends them to bed, knowing Sam will help the Maester first. He then closes the door and takes his boots off. Ghost as already snuck up in bed by the foot end and Satin doesn’t seem to notice. He’s dead to the world now and that’s just as well, considering what’s happened.  
  
Jon is very careful when he lays down, his head throbbing not from the drinking but from anger, helplessness and the betrayal of either hospitality or brotherhood – or both – the one or ones responsible for this violation have shown, not just to Satin, but to the Night’s Watch as a whole. They’re brothers, they don’t have to love or even like each other, but they’ve sworn the same oath, they guard the same wall and they’re all depending on each other for aid and support. Their guests wouldn’t even come near these woods unless Castle Black stood here as a lantern in the dark, keeping it’s eyes out for wildings and white walkers alike. Now they’re all a little less safe than they were this morning, as one of those sworn to be the light in the dark and watching over the realms of men, is so badly wounded he can’t fulfill his oath, possibly for a long time.  
  
The once too small and thin body beside Jon, has hardened a lot since arriving here. Satin will never be burly but his limbs have become broader and sinewy and, although the frugal fare of a place that must think further along than the joys of the next rich supper has left him as lithe and slender as ever, he’s grown strong and perseverant. Whoever did this to him, was either on the quite broad and tall side, or had company.  
  
Satin is out cold, the merciful Mother be thanked, and a brother or commander shouldn’t lift the blankets, but Jon’s more than that to this man. He’s his lover, rarely as they get the opportunity to share a bed, but whenever they do, when they come together as men only, Jon can no longer see the brother and companion in the beautiful, squirming body beneath or above him, only the man and lover he first appreciated, then came to desire and now knows he’s sharing something deeper than merely the pleasures of the flesh with.  
  
The worst wound isn’t visible to the eye, but hidden underneath Satin’s long shirt, padded by a linen napkin as if though he was an infant or old, infinitly bedridden man. Sam, with the instructions from Maester Aemon, did the stitches while Jon held Satin’s head to his chest although he was already numbed out and couldn’t feel anything. It goes without saying that no one will tend to his most intimate parts but Jon. Sam or Maester Aemon may give the necessary instructions, but Jon’s not gonna let anyone touch that wound but himself.  
  
He was the one making Satin his steward and the one intiviting him to his bed. If there’s even the slightest chance this weakness of Jon’s brought this upon his brother and lover, then it’s his duty to take care of all of the damage made. He owns Satin that, little as it is.  
  
  
**Satin**  
He can almost see Ellä shaking her head at him, hearing her sympathetic yet cynical voice in the darkness:  
  
_You’re surrounded with only men, some of them of the worst kind, Satin Flowers, all of them starved of pussy and they_ **all** _know whom you used to be_. _Whatever made you this thick headed, thinking you could let your guard down simply because the Lord Commander is fucking you? That black thing hanging around your shoulders, you honestly thought it would protect you from your past? Silly boy…_  
  
There’s no way of telling what day it is, how many that’s passed since the feast or if it’s even day at all. He’s alone in Jon’s chamber, only Ghost remains a warm presence by his feet. Whenever Jon or Sam or Maester Aemon comes in, it’s to help him with one thing or another. Food and drink, washing, tending to his wounds, helping him with the detestable napkins like an infant. Dolorous Edd who, among his many skills knows how to acceptably cut hair, has shorn yet more of it, to hide the signs of the humiliation. Now the remaining of his black curls are turned to a simply cropped surface of still soft and thick hair, but the ringlets are all gone.  
  
Not that it matters. It’s just hair and it’ll grow back, but even if it didn’t, what good use would it do? A pretty _catamite_ dancing with _ladies_ in Castle Black’s great hall. The Lord Commander’s _pet_ with raven ringlets, never truly one of the protectors of the realms.  
  
Satin slowly sits up. The pain is still there, but not as bad as before. The softness underneath him makes is possible to sit for the moment it takes to turn onto the other side. He recalls the visiting septon’s disgusted frown and how some of the noble family’s men were looking with just the kind of fascinated averse so common among soldiers. The disgust only poorly covering the pruriency in their heavy eyes. They didn’t see a member of the Night’s Watch, but a whore, no, not even that.  
  
A slut, because they don’t require coins – or permission. They’re for taking and they have no pride left, not even that of a whore who knows the value of his skills, but just a thing to use as pleased. And somewhere in the castle, there’s still a man walking around with a six inches long, black curl, like a trophy, hidden beneath a black cloak.


End file.
